


even when the night changes

by scyllas (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, POV Second Person, Role Changing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/scyllas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In a thousand worlds, in a thousand lives, no god or greater being could keep him from stealing your heart. In a thousand worlds, in a thousands lives, no god or greater being could keep you from giving it to him willingly.</i><br/><br/>In which Cullen is not a commander, but he is everything <i>else</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. inquisitor

Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and this is, perhaps, your greatest misfortune. The gash across your palm leeches warmth from your fingertips, and the green light pulses with the steady beat of your heart.

In the darkness of your room, the moon nowhere to be seen and the stars cloaked in the night, it bathes your skin in a sickly color. It commands a sort of respect, the kind that terrifies to even wield, and--

\--if this was part of some godly will, they were clearly mistaken to choose _you._

“Cullen?” groans a voice next to you. Dorian shifts closer to you, before rolling on top of you. “Still awake, are we?”

You don’t answer yet, at least, not verbally. You clench the marked hand and tuck it under the blankets, where you can forget it for a little while. “I couldn’t sleep,” you answer.

Dorian’s hand runs through your hair before cupping the back of your head. He kisses you, just once, on the tip of your nose because he knows you can’t help but show a smile. “Nightmares again?” he asks, frowning. You reach up to smooth away the wrinkles on his forehead.

“No,” you say truthfully. The nightmares of crumbling stone and sacrifices are fewer in between, but you still try not to think about it.

“Now, I know we’re _both_ beautiful, but we can’t intimidate everyone with our good looks if you look as if you’ve stayed up half of the week.” He does this every time he discovers you’ve forgone sleep for yet another night-- he hides, rather plainly, behind wit and words. His intentions are spoken when he presses his forehead against yours, when he offers you a small smile, when you see how _tired_ he is but he still insists on staying awake with you even when you’ve insisted that _Dorian, I’m fine._

The mark flares with pain that’s akin to the turn of a heart when it realizes that it has fallen too deep and too far into something unknown.

The mark was made for those who wanted to be gods, but you are a man, and you have made the mark yours. Corypheus cannot take it because you are _man_ and you have put a human leash on something that is _not._

“That’s enough,” Dorian murmurs when he senses your thoughts have started to run together, and truths are no longer _truths_ but rather speculation. “Sleep, _amatus_.”

“I’m trying,” you say, and it comes out petulant. You cup his face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbones, and he leans into your unholy palm, normal and warm and _yours_. “Go to sleep, Dorian, I will be fine.”

“Sleep with me, and you’ll be doubly so.” He rolls off of you before pulling you flush against his body. You always thought it odd when love was described like two pieces falling together, but perhaps you understand it better now. Every line of his fits with every line of yours, and you would not move unless the world splintered on itself.

You kiss him, a kiss that is searching even though you know every part of him, a kiss that feels like staying by a warm fire on a cold night, a kiss that feels like--

\--it feels like love.

“Perhaps I will,” you whisper against his lips, and he laughs softly.

“Good.” Dorian wraps his arms and legs around you. “Because I will not let go until you do.”

This makes you smile. “Oh _no_.”

He presses a sleepy kiss to your lips, settling closer. “Careful, Inquisitor. You tread in dangerous waters. I may have to _never_ let you go.”

“And what a great shame that would be.” Your eyes flutter shut for the first time in days, and you fall asleep to silence.

  



	2. grey warden

Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and you find no comfort in the thoughts of an absent prophetess now. The room is cool and dim, braziers burning with dim fire, and the holy Andraste looms before you, unseeing (or is it all-seeing?) eyes boring into your very soul.

There was belief in you before, a great and all-consuming faith that fueled you in what you thought were your darkest days. This makes you laugh, though it tastes bitter in your mouth.

 _Andraste_ , you used to beg. _Andraste, Maker, aid me_ , you cried when it was not lyrium that haunted your every thought, but the roar of beasts you wished you’d never heard.

You saw brothers and sisters fall and go willingly to their end, and in their hopeless smiles, you found no god or prophet.

Andraste may have lived, Andraste may have died, Andraste may have been taken to the fucking Maker’s _side_ , but if the Maker favored only one of his Children, then you want no part of Him.

“There you are!” The door opens behind you, and the sound of Skyhold’s garden floods into the prayer room. You do not turn.

“Dorian.” He is used to your _charming Ferelden reticence_ as he puts it, and you are thankful he is patient enough to put up with you.

“You were not there for chess,” he says as he wraps his arms around your waist. You smile when he has to lean up, just a little, to put his chin on your shoulder. “I couldn’t believe it-- I was shamed! Spurned! By the man I--” He hesitates then, and you do not, _can not_ , blame him. “By the man I--”

“You need not say it.” You take one of his hands and kiss his palm, and you can feel turn his face to your neck and press his lips to your skin.

“But I want to,” he whispers against your ear.

“You _need not_ say it.”

Dorian is silent for a moment. “Does this mean you do not feel the same way?”

“The opposite, actually.” You turn and cup his face, and in his eyes, you find what you have forgotten-- that fire of belief that burns in your heart. You would fight for this man. You would die for this man. You would _kill_ for this man. And you are afraid that the Calling will claim you when he needs you most. “I adore you.”

Perhaps, you could have spared him the heartache before, when all that was between you was rough hands roaming cold skin, gasps and groans in a silent room.

You could have broken away then.

You cannot now.

And perhaps, in another life, your love would have come as natural as breathing, but now it is rushed with both of your approaching fates. You smile, and it is not kind.

Those who swear to prevent annihilation do not live to love slowly.

“I love you,” he says. He is burning light in a darkened world, the only holy thing left in your eyes, unable to be corrupted or besmirched. You open your mouth to parrot back because you _must_ , because you _want_ , you want him to hear long avoided words, and you want him to believe it.

He smiles sadly, presses his fingers against your lips. “You need not say it,” he echoes.

He kisses you, and memories of a burning faith grips your lungs tight, and you forget your vanished god and the screams of his banished children.

He kisses you, and in this moment, he is your god and prophet and friend and lover, great and mortal and _glorious._


	3. mage

Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and your mother used to say that there was a storm in your veins that ached to be free, lightning in your eyes that arced and raced.

She was right, in a way.

_Never fear for what you have is a gift_ , your mother had said when they came, and she had cried but her voice was strong and clear. She had taken your hand, still so small, between both of hers and whispered in your ear _Never fear, my darling boy._

You wish you had held onto her words tighter.

_Magic is dangerous_ , they had said at the Circle, wagging their fingers and pursing their lips with distaste for magic or perhaps you. _Magic is your curse_. And, for a time, you took those words deep into your heart and harbored its sharp edges until your heart bled. Your faith faltered, then-- it had seemed that the Maker had put you upon His creation simply to sin.

_Magic is your curse_ , they said. It had taken too long to learn that curses could be broken.

When the Circles fell, you ran as fast your legs could carry you. When the Circles fell, those words, _danger_ and _curse_ , pressed their thorns deeper into your soul until you could not bear to keep them anymore and wrenched them away with an ugly sob and a freedom that sang in your bones. When the Circles fell, the bloody remains of your heart shook like you held thunder in your ribs that threatened to break you apart, and you welcomed your destruction with frenzied eyes and fingers laced with a chaotic tempest.

At times, you wonder how you quieted the tumult’s rage.

You do not know what would have happened if you didn’t.

“Cullen?” You startle, and a hand rests on your shoulder. You blink tiredly at a dimming candle and at Dorian’s face, shrouded in shadow. You can hear the rain pelt against the small window of Dorian’s alcove. You both sit on the library’s cold stone floor, books are littered around you, open and marked. You roll your shoulders, wincing when you hear a loud _pop_.

“Sorry,” you say, and it is instinct. Your Circle was not kind to you or any other mage. “Did you say something?”

“Oh, you know, a little bit of this and that.” Dorian’s smile is amused and _perfect_ and for _you_ , and you wonder how anyone could look at this man and find evil, look at this man and see nothing but say everything. _Vile. Corrupt. Mage._ “Just Corypheus business, nothing _too_ important.” His hand falls from your shoulder, and you feel much colder without it. “You do know that I will not keep you if you want to sleep.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

Dorian frowns at you, and hesitatingly, touches your knee with a cold hand. “ _Amatus_ \--”

“I’ll sleep soon,” you promise, and he nods only once and pats your knee only once and you brush your hand over his cheek only once, but it is enough for the both of you.

He is everything that the Chantry warned you about-- magic unrestrained and unchained, and you both envy him and thank the Maker that he was spared in this, at least.

The greatest pains lie in being shamed for something you cannot control, and you both know this all too well.

But, for all your brokenness, your ragged hearts wounded with barbed words and ideas stitch together, slowly slowly slowly. With him, you do not doubt that they will be whole once again. Not today nor tomorrow, but someday the storm in your veins and the lightning in your eyes will sing, and no pain will haunt his heart.

You take his hand in yours, and he looks up at you, eyes grey like storm clouds.


	4. bard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for extreme fluff

Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and the few nobles that visit the Herald’s Rest never seem to tire in telling you that you are _pretty_ and _my, what a bard you would make_. You do not tell them that you already _are_ a bard, simply not the type that connives and murders and spins lies from the air.

You are the type that sings songs, and perhaps if your lack of money calls for it, throws out all dignity for a night that you, nor any your patrons, can remember.

_My, what a bard you would make_ , they say to you, and you tell them nothing, only offer a sly smile that they all seem to adore but you despise because it is a mask you need not live under.

It is this not-so-subtle evasion that first caught _his_ attention.

If you are pretty, then he is _beautiful_ though they did not say that of him. _A magister from Tevinter_! they had cried in their whispers, hands raised to hide their mouths. Their words were always subtly vile, the kind that wormed into your heart and left you wondering why you felt sick. _A magister with the Herald? Impossible!_

You had only stared down at your feet, and part of you yelled at this injustice, that they should not be besmirching the name of someone so _brave_. You could have made a thousand of songs from Dorian Pavus’ arrival to Haven, a whole army behind him, footfalls threatening to bring destruction down onto you all. _Brave_ and _gallant_ and _noble_ and _handsome_ Dorian Pavus.

It was he who first bought you a drink because _you look as if you desperately needed it_ , and it was he who you poured your endless frustrations of people, of music, and at times, of yourself. And it was he who listened, and it is to him you owe a debt that you could never hope to repay.

Another part of you had whispered, ever increasingly, that you were growing extremely flowery in your descriptions of him, but Dorian Pavus deserved better than spite, and if flowery was the only way you could repay him for all he had done, then flowery you would become

You fix the problem the only way you know how-- you sing, what is perhaps, the most heroic depiction of someone so unjustly reviled. You sing it like it is truth because it _is_ , it is truth to you, because anyone who could see Dorian Pavus knew he was good. Not without flaws, for every mortal who believed themselves mortal knew they had flaws, but good did not mean perfect. And Dorian Pavus, sired from Tevinter, was _good_.

It is not long til you hear it being hummed around the tavern, around Skyhold, and you grin to yourself when you hear the Inquisitor singing it to herself when she passes through the Herald’s Rest.

It is not long til he comes to confront you about it, and you have never been more terrified or elated in your life. He is beautiful, and there is no lie in your thoughts when you think _A hundred songs, a thousand, a million would not be enough to encompass all of you_. “What is this?” he whispers to you when he sees that you two are quite, strangely, alone. “This-- _Dorian the Brave_?”

And perhaps you stumble over your words as if you were but a child confessing your endless pining, and perhaps he smiles at you as if he’s never seen you before, _really_ smiles at you like you are a wonder, and perhaps you flush a deep red that he laughs gently at.

Perhaps you kiss his talented fingers, ringed with magic. Perhaps he kisses your lips and brushes away your curls from your face.

You are not quite sure what happened that night, only that you wake up next to him and he wakes up next to you, and you are _quite_ sure you never want to rise, only kiss his lovely mouth and feel his lovely skin against your hands.

“What, no tawdry songs?” he murmurs against your hair.

“Not yet,” you laugh.

“ _Yet_."

You kiss his lovely mouth and his lovely face and yes, your descriptions are growing ever extremely flowery, but you cannot help it.

Dorian’s head is crowned with onyx and his eyes are gilded in silver and his laugh is like day break, and your stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies in the breeze.

History would not remember you, but they would remember _Dorian the Brave, Dorian the Good, Dorian the Lovely_.


	5. companion

Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and you don’t know what possessed you to say yes when the Inquisitor asked you to hunt dragons with her, only that you did, and now Cassandra has three broken ribs and possibly a concussion, Dorian won’t stop complaining about how his robe was _royale sea silk, do you know how corrosive dragon’s blood is to royale fucking sea silk?_ and you are quite sure that the world spinning is not normal.

“Oh, I give up,” Dorian sighs, picking at the sleeve of his robe. “I’ll just have to commission a new one.”

“You look fine,” you wheeze, holding your stomach. You can see the camp sitting high up on a rocky shelf, and it’s proximity does nothing but make you more tired, your bones turning to paste and your breath coming short.

“Oh please,” Dorian replies, rolling his eyes. “I look better than fine. I’m striking.” You envy him-- he walks as if his feet did not weigh like rocks and his head did not pound like war drums. He _thrives_ in the heat of the Western Approach, as much as he may complain of the sand that reaches into places where sand Should Not be.

The night approaches quickly, sun sinking low into the horizon. It paints the whole desert a burning orange-- it’s beautiful, to be sure, but you have no energy for appreciating the magnificence of a sunset when all you want to do is curl up on a sandy dune and sleep til the sunlight burns your pale skin. Clearly, Dorian senses this and winds an arm around your waist, hauling you up with the muscles of-- well. You do not know many mages with muscles that well defined.

It is something you should look into, you think. A study. Purely for scientific reason, of course. Dorian could appreciate scientific study, couldn’t he?

Dorian sighs, amused, a breath of a laugh that you feel more than hear. “You’re saying your thoughts aloud _again_ , you _must_ be tired.”

“Exhausted,” you agree.

He smiles at you, and you are glad the Inquisitor is physically hauling Cassandra up the slope in front of you because she would tease you for the terrible blush that you cannot blame on the temperature. It is no secret that you and Dorian are-- _together_ may not be the right word for it, at least not yet. Together implies something concrete, and as much as you may yearn for it to be so, what you both have is like a new plant, easily trampled under foot if you are not careful. Involved is too impersonal, but perhaps it is the most accurate. You two are certainly involved in _many_ things.

“You’re still talking,” says Dorian, still very obviously entertained.

“I know,” you snap. You did not know. You’ll be embarrassed about this later, when you actually have your wits about you.

“I didn’t say to stop.” Dorian’s voice is low in your ear, and despite the almost steaming heat, you shiver.

“I, ah. Um.” You clear your throat. “Yes.”

The Inquisitor laughs, Dorian laughs, even Cassandra manages a very weak disgusted noise, and if you settle more of your weight into Dorian’s arms just to see him struggle, you cannot be blamed.

“Rude,” he whispers under his breath, and you smile.

You reach the camp when night has already settled, and the auroras paint the sky in greens and violets and blues and whites. The Inquisitor is immediately whisked away after putting Cassandra down onto a roll where scouts attend to her-- a good potion would ease her pain until they could get a good look on her in the light of day. Knowing Cassandra, the Maker Himself would visit her in the early morning and miraculously heal her because this is _Cassandra_ , and Cassandra cannot seem to hold an injury for longer than six hours.

“Oh sweet Maker,” you groan when you reach the tents, dropping yourself onto one of the bed rolls. “Oh _sweet Maker_.”

Dorian sits next to you and starts unbuckling your armor, and you thank sweet holy Andraste that Dorian _exists_ because you would have slept in your armor, comfort be damned. “Up you get, you lazy lion,” he coaxes, nearly dragging you up by the arm.

“Mmrgh,” is your only response, but you rise and start unbuckling his as well because your armor is infinitely less complicated than Dorian’s. “Remind me to never do this again?”

“What, hunt dragons? But you look oh so _valiant_ doing it. What will Varric write about without you? The Inquisitor getting angry because the dragon knocked off her helmet and she couldn’t find it, or perhaps Cassandra getting thrown back a good thirty feet and rising again?”

You snort. “It all sounds like good material to me.”

“It will lack the romantic appeal.”

“That’s why you’re there.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Such a way with words when he’s dead on his feet.”

You plop back onto your roll once you kick away all of your armor, wincing when dust and sand get into your eyes. “Only to seduce you,” you mumble. All of the day’s events play back in your head, and your exhaustion settles heavy in your body, and _oh_ , you won’t be rising till late morning. Dorian lays next to you, and it is too warm to have another body so close, but his steady breath is like the patter of rain on a stormy night, pulling your mind into a deep void of silence.

Perhaps you do not mind dragon hunting so much after all, you think as Dorian settles his head on your chest.


	6. your name is not cullen stanton rutherford

i. inquisitor

Your name is Dorian Pavus, and the world shakes with each step your lover takes, trembles as his shadows reaches farther and farther, until he can no longer see how far it stretches. Inquisitor, they cry, Herald of Andraste, and the name fits him-- unwavering and unshakeable to watching eyes, holy in his unholiness, a beacon to which you all look with hopeful and distrusting eyes. _Savior!_ say those who cry his name, who grab his coat seeking absolution, run their fingers over his shield for luck. _Executioner!_ say those who spit at the dust on his feet, glare from dark corners, and wait for their chance.

They call him savior. They call him executioner. A million fates look to him, and he bears it with a stony gaze and spine like steel.

You call him _Cullen_. You look to him, and he smiles, a smile that is soft and _yours._

 

ii. grey warden

Your name is Dorian Pavus, and you have learned to hum when he sleeps in your arms. A lullaby that you’ve never heard, notes weaving into something meaningless. He listens with a forced listlessness, an inner command to stay still and _rest_ , but as much as he tries, you can see his fingers drum against the covers.

You used to stop when you thought him asleep, but he would only sigh deeply and ask you to  _Please keep going_ , and you would because you could see his muscles tense the moment you halted, feel his fingernails dig into your stomach. _Please keep humming._

It does not drown It out-- your voice is sandpaper rough compared to It, this you know. Something so beautiful and yet so terribly ugly, and you are helpless. You wish you could hold his ears shut, bring him where It would not harm him, but he only smiles when he hears your frustrations. _I will not go easily_ , he says.

 _I will not_ let _you go easily_ , you say. _Do you hear them? Do you hear It?_

_I do._

_I’m sorry I cannot do more, amatus. I would if I could,_ and your desperation bleeds into your voice.

He looks at you as if you’re something _holy_ , kisses you like you are something to be _revered,_ and you kiss him back, hoping that for the moment, the melody of the inevitable quiets.

 

iii. mage

Your name is Dorian Pavus, and you do not miss the way he smiles when he sees you. Not wide and ecstatic, but tender and secret as if others cannot see the what you do. _I’m glad you’re here_ , he says, and his voice is hushed.

You once asked if he was ashamed of you, and he looked at you with horrified eyes and calmed you with fluttering kisses on your cheeks, on your forehead, on your lips that _No, Dorian, never!_ You learned, though slowly, that it is caution that mutes his movements and affections. _You know not to bring attention to yourself,_ he admitted one day when Skyhold was grey with rain. _I suppose I haven’t unlearned it yet._

 _I’m rather glad I’m here, too_ , you say to him now, _and I’m quite pleased I’m not the only one._ His laugh is silent yet world shaking, victory in its existence, rolls of rumbling thunder in the distance.

 

iv. bard

Your name is Dorian Pavus, and he calls you his _muse_ , of all things. He says it jokingly, with a small smirk as he strums his ridiculous _lute. My inspiration_ , he says.

 _And what, exactly,_ you say as you sit yourself in his lap, wooden curve of the lute digging into your back, _do I inspire?_

He goes silent, and you have no doubt that he has gone at least somewhat red. _Is this revenge for the last ballad?_ he asks weakly when you turn to straddle him.

 _Only if you believe it is_ , you grin.

You do not tell him you adored the last song he wrote you. You think he knows, anyway.

 

v. companion

Your name is Dorian Pavus, and you wake next to him. It surprises you-- Cullen is one to rise before the world wakes, sweat already clinging to his curls, to his skin when Skyhold awakens from its slumber.

You never have the chance to see him like this-- softened by sleep and, _Maker_ , snoring like a bear. You laugh against your arm, and he rustles at the sound.

 _Dorian?_ he asks, voice rough.

 _Cullen_ , you say, running your hand through his hair. _You’re still here. I would have thought you would be off terrorizing the practice dummies at this late hour._

 _Mm, later_ , he groans. _Never fighting dragons or bears again._

 _Agreed_ , you say.

Around you, the Inquisition readies itself for whatever may come next, and you are sure that you both will fight with fury when the time comes. But for now?

Cullen brings you close against his side, kissing you sleepily on the forehead. _Good morning,_ he mumbles.

_The best morning. It’s with you._

_You are a sap._

For now, you are content to let the moment pass, wrapped in sunshine and warmth and _him._

 

_-_

 

In a thousand worlds, in a thousand lives, no god or greater being could keep him from coaxing your heart from its shield of thorns. In a thousand worlds, in a thousand lives, no god or greater being could keep you from offering it to him with open hands.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT ENDS! Thank you all so much for your support of this, especially you rad people in the comment section. Don't think you can escape my endless gratitude just yet!
> 
> So, yes this particular fic is _done_ , I hope you all liked it!
> 
> Come say hello at [my blog, sinoyan](http://sinoyan.tumblr.com)!


End file.
